The Deal
by theheathen42
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr gifset in which Watson learns about demon deals and Crowley tells him why he can't get one.


"John?" a faint knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," he called back, trying to mask the frustration in his voice rather than take it out on her. He still felt guilty about shouting at her last week when he found her cleaning up one of Sherlock's experiments.

He heard the floorboards creak slightly as his landlady shifted from foot to foot, probably trying to decide whether or not to come in anyway. After a moment, he heard her pad her way back downstairs. She'd be back in an hour or so, he knew. Maybe by then he'd be in a better mood.

Getting up, he moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He tried not to look at the table where Sherlock's last experiment was still laid out, incomplete. Liquids were congealing in containers. Mold was growing in more than one dish. A pen lay beside a notepad where Sherlock's handwriting crawled across the page like a spider. John clenched his jaw and took in a quick, sharp breath. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the knife of pain that stabbed him in the chest, not opening them until the kettle whistled that it was boiled.

The best man that he'd ever met was gone. The most brilliant, incisive, astonishing mind he'd ever had the pleasure to encounter had been cruelly dashed on the pavement. Much as he wished to believe otherwise, he knew that Sherlock was … dead. Even _thinking_ the word hurt him more than being shot ever had. That had been a physical ache. This was nothing short of agony.

He returned once more to his computer, as he had so often in recent months. At first, it was at the behest of his therapist. Continue blogging, get your thoughts down on the page, pin them down with words and letters so they stop swirling around in your brain and driving you ever further into madness.

At least, that's what the idea had been.

Instead, he'd started researching death. And Death. As a medical doctor, he of course knew the technical aspects of what happened when life left the body. That's not what he was looking into. He was looking into what happens to the _soul_. It was amazing the information you could find on the internet.

He'd found the deal three days before.

A link in an article had sent him to a forum which sent him to a facebook page which sent him to tumblr then twitter then back to another forum and so on down the usual sort of rabbit hole one descends when researching online. And then, in the middle of another horrible night of loneliness and bereavement, he read about it. A deal. A trade, of sorts. Tit for tat.

Could it be that simple?

The idea plagued him, night and day. It couldn't be real… could it? Wouldn't more people do it, if it were? No, it had to be a story made up by a fanatic or a madman.

Back and forth he went, denying its plausibility and then believing in it wholeheartedly. For three days now, he'd been searching the same string of characters and reading whatever information came up. Demon deal.

Even _thinking_ it sounded preposterous. If Sherlock were here, he'd have launched into a full tirade about angels and demons, heaven and hell, the merits (and, more likely, demerits) of every major religion in the world, as well as a number of the minor ones, and finish by roundly abusing John for even considering such a foolish notion.

But Sherlock wasn't here. That was the whole problem.

Setting his mouth in a determined line, John entered the search term once more. He went back to a site he'd visited the day before and called up the diagrams he'd seen. He got out a marker and a piece of paper and carefully recreated the image, painstakingly copying each line and curve. When it was complete, he laid it on the floor with a candle at each corner and the spell ingredients in a bowl to the side. Opening the new canister of salt he'd purchased, he created a protective ring around both himself and the spell.

After taking a deep breath, he hesitantly spoke the Latin incantation.

"Dr. Watson," a sarcastic voice said behind him, startling him and making him whip round to see who it was. He didn't look like any demon he'd imagined. He looked kind of like a corporate lawyer, really. Though now he came to think of it that sort of amounted to the same thing.

"Let me guess," the newcomer continued, "You want Sherlock Holmes back."

John swallowed hard and nodded. "That's right." He raised an eyebrow at his guest. "Are you a demon?"

The other man smiled and opened his arms expansively, "Name's Crowley," he introduced himself. "And I'm not just any demon. I'm the King of Hell."

John blinked and tried to process the information. He brain seemed to be working at half speed, and he could only focus on one thing. "Can you do it?" He hesitated, "Can you bring him back if I …" he cleared his throat, unable to believe he was actually doing and saying these things. "Can you bring him back if I give you my soul?"

Crowley tried to look apologetic, but wasn't terribly successful. "I'd love to make a deal and own your soul," he began, walking slowly around the salt circle John stood inside. "But I can't."

"Why _not_?" John asked, his anger and frustration clear on his face. "What's the _point_ of you then?"

Crowley looked offended. "I _can't_ because Sherlock Holmes isn't dead."

"What?" He really must be the King of Hell to say something that cruel.

"He's not dead," Crowley repeated, enunciating each word with sarcastic clarity.

"But I _saw…_"

Crowley rolled his eyes, "_Thought_ you saw."

"But he _jumped_ off the roof! I _watched_ him!" John's face flushed scarlet and his voice rose. He hoped Mrs. Hudson would ignore it.

"Oh, he jumped alright."

"Well then."

"He just didn't land."

John's face was a picture of confusion. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does," Crowley explained, "_if_ you know his friends as well as I do."

"Sherlock doesn't have any friends," John stated emphatically.

Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Except me," John whispered.

"Not just you. If I may?" Crowley gestured to the salt ring on the floor. John mentally shrugged and then brushed it aside with his foot. "Thank you. That was very rude of you to invite me here and then block me like that." Crowley stood in front of John and touched a hand to his forehead. John cringed away, but Crowley followed him. "_Relax_, you little hedgehog. Five minutes ago, you were ready to give me your soul and now I'm not allowed to touch your forehead? Talk about mixed signals."

Gritting his teeth, John allowed the demon to touch him and then suddenly he was watching Sherlock fall again. This time, however, he was standing on the pavement directly below the building and when Sherlock was halfway down an amazing thing happened. A large blue phone box materialized out of thin air and opened its doors for Sherlock to fall into. It was only there for a fraction of a second, and then it was gone.

"What…?" John blinked.

"He's with a different Doctor now," Crowley replied.

"Doctor who?"


End file.
